The sun rose on the flawless brimming sea into a sky all brazen-all one brightening for gods immortal and for mortal men on plowlands kind with grain.
Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans.
Sweet sleep fell upon his eyelids, unwakeful, most pleasant, the nearest like death.
If you serve too many masters, you'll soon suffer.
Beyond his strength no man can fight, although he be eager.
All men owe honor to the poets - honor and awe; for they are dearest to the Muse who puts upon their lips the ways of life.